


Now I Lay Thee Down to Sleep

by tasteofhysteria



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Latin Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Also GRATUITOUS SPANISH, M/M, Wow this is sort of depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofhysteria/pseuds/tasteofhysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I pray the Lord thy soul to keep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now I Lay Thee Down to Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hummingbirdprince](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hummingbirdprince).



> Puerto Rico: Emmanuel  
> Cuba: Aléjandro

It’s in the night, when Emmanuel’s breath trembles, that Aléjandro wonders if Emmanuel can keep his promises.

In a strange way, there’s something that feels sickeningly voyeuristic about listening to someone breathing in the dark. Aléjandro remembers, vaguely, those quiet moments when he was still a bit too small for anything other than the tedious task of ripping husks from cane while sitting in a circle of gossiping women, exchanging recipes and remedies and instructions for charms for the lovestruck, all of them giggling quietly as they told their own stories of romance.  
  
An old crone, bent with age and gnarled from hard work, told her tale in a thready voice like a harsh breeze rasping through the reeds.  
  
“ _It’s love when the sound of them breathing is the only lullaby you need._ ”   
  
The sound of Emmanuel’s breaths coming in stutters and gasps is not a lullaby but a warning dirge against the dangers of sleep. And Aléjandro’s fairly certain that the kind of love those women were talking about all those decades ago are not like the love that’s present now, if there is any.

Or maybe it’s better to say that there’s no love lost between them and the man who insisted they call him “father” even though he never lived up to being one. And for all that lashing out and fighting back is a cathartic relief, it’s much like lancing a boil; everything built up until it was slashed open and now all the ugly innards were spilling out, putrefied and reeking with rot. 

There’s a golden boy reaching out to them, offering them a salve and a bandage for this wound, but it doesn’t seem right, somehow. And putting a bandage over this kind of wound doesn’t make it go away; it just covers up the fact that it’s there.

It takes Aléjandro a moment to realise that the tent has gone too silent for too long. He props himself up on an elbow, squinting in the dark as he placed a trembling hand a hairsbreadth away from Emmanuel’s parted lips, biting down on his own fiercely as he waited, his other hand clenched into a tight fist where his nails bit deep crescents into his palm.

There is a long moment where everything is too still; the cicadas and night frogs have gone quiet and Aléjandro’s heartbeat is slow and muddy in his own ears. 

Emmanuel twitches, the weary lines etched in his young face from stress softened by the low lantern light tightening for a moment before he chokes on nothing, drawing in a rattling breath and he’s still breathing, a miracle greater than the second coming of Christ to deliver them from the evils of a grasping man who loved too oppressively.

Alé sagged back down in relief. One hand went to the crucifix around his neck and the other searched blindly in the dark for Emmanuel’s.

“Angel de mi guarda, dulce compañia,” he whispered as he entwined their fingers, “no me desampares, ni de noche ni de dia—”

“No me desampares,” he whispered as Emmanuel’s breath faltered again. “No me desampares.”


End file.
